Dreams
by ShackledinSilver
Summary: <html><head></head>Harry is burdened by his memories of the past.</html>


Disclaimer: I only wish I owned the wonderful world of Harry Potter.

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><p><strong>Dreams<strong>

Every night was the same. Every night he endured this hell; praying to fall quickly to sleep. He couldn't handle this anymore, this hanging in limbo, caught between sleeping and waking. Ever night was the same. He would run blindly through the abyss, searching for hours through the misty memories and faded could-be's and what-if's. He would sprint to catch up to the fading shadow of his lover, but just as he reached out to him, he was gone; as if he'd never been there in the first place. And than he would turn around; and that voice, that sinister, chilling, _sensual_ voice would be calling to him again. Every night, it was a constant assault on his mind, on his emotions. Every night, he was plagued by the constant dread of drifting; not only to sleep, but through this dreamland of ghosts, this wasteland that was once his mind.

It was three years ago, the day the dark haired man was taken from him. Or did he leave? The details were muddled to him now, he had gone through them too many times; they were now confused and bleak. They seemed scientific, and cold; they weren't his own anymore. They couldn't be. Those dark brooding eyes that often bore into him would not have simply left him. What of the whispered promises? The nights spent worshipping each other? Or simply spending time in the proximity of the one you loved? Surely, _surely _the man would not have stayed with him for twelve years if he didn't have some reason to stay.

_Betrayal._

His mind hissed the word at him, as he lay there, staring at the ceiling. _Betrayal. He only stared for his own good; to be with the Golden Boy, you know what it did for his reputation. He got what he wanted; he cleared his name. And he left. Just like everyone else. You're nothing._

No. Severus wasn't like that. Severus wouldn't have broken him down to this self-doubting recluse he had become; not intentionally, certainly not willingly. He may seem cold and distant; he may _be _cold and distant. But somewhere, buried deep, he did have a heart. A beating, healthy heart that had opened itself to Harry, a heart that Harry had treasured beyond anything else. Life hadn't been easy with the man, but he couldn't believe he had been so unhappy to have simply left without a backward glance.

_Waste; a waste of twelve years. Now look at us. Nothing. We are nothing._

He rolled over and held his pillow tighter, refusing to give in to his own thoughts. He shut his eyes tightly, refusing to give in to the fog of memories threatening to roll in off the sea of his subconscious.

He felt a strong arm wrap around his waist, pulling him against a subtly chiseled chest of the body he so adored. He lay in the warmth of recognition for a moment; cherishing the feel of the man against his back, like they had spent so many nights. Rolling back over, he buried his face into the man's chest and let a tear or two slip from his lashes. He had come back. He breathed in, savoring the scent of the man lying next to him; the scent he thought had been lost to him forever. The faint scent of lilac and musk, mixed intimately with that of pinewood and winter consumed his senses, and soon he was growing dizzy from the pleasure of the familiarity. He lifted his arms to wrap around the neck of his returning lover, and found that the chest was no longer that of Severus, but of his pillow; the arms nothing more than a blanket, wound too tight against his skin. The scent drifted from him, as if carried by a gentle breeze. A gentle breeze blowing harshly into the corners of his mind, eradicating every ounce of hope he had let accumulate there.

Every night was spent in despair over that which he was once free to call his own; the man that had once belonged to him. His memories were no longer sweet and reminiscent; they no longer brought him joy. To recall the memories of the Potions Master was to lock himself up prisoner, stuck in the cage all too confining. There was no escape for him, not anymore. He was crippled; the Boy Who Lived wished nothing more than to cease existing. He wished to die; for if something didn't, this pain would. This pain caused by a solitary man; a single pair of obsidian eyes; one head, one _beautiful _head of shoulder length, silky dark hair; one voice as it whispered his name into the darkness.

"_Harry…"_

Every night was the same.


End file.
